


Married To The Road

by morganya



Category: Bandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-19
Updated: 2007-06-19
Packaged: 2017-10-20 06:58:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/209997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganya/pseuds/morganya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scenes from a band.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Married To The Road

Sometimes in interviews, they ask him to describe his life, the way he lives now as opposed to the way he lived before. Mike always gets tripped up by that question, because no one ever seems satisfied when he says, "It's cool," or "It's different." He really doesn't know how to sum up his life, how to describe everything so it all makes sense and doesn't come out in some disjointed ramble. If he was more comfortable with words, he might be able to give the best answer. But he's not, really.

Words are more Bill's thing, anyway.

*****

He was sixteen or seventeen the first time he met Bill. He'd been onstage, unplugging the guitar before he followed Tim and AJ and Mark off, and then he saw this tall, skinny kid with long monkey arms peering out at him from the wings. Mike figured he was a friend of somebody's, and gave him a quick nod as he passed by.

When the show was over, he had to wait around for the night bus, stuck outside the hall at midnight wondering if he should just call home and deal with the consequences later. He had his guitar case slung over his back and a borrowed amplifier in his hand.

"So how long have you been with these guys?" someone asked him.

Mike looked up; the skinny kid from before was leaning against the wall of the club, watching him. The question kind of caught him off guard, not so much the words but the tone - it was like they'd already been in the middle of a conversation.

"A while," Mike said, and shifted the amp to his other hand. "We all kind of know each other, so."

"Hey, you know what you look like?" the kid said, abruptly, almost aggressively. "On stage, you know, with the shirts and whatever, it's, like, you don't seem to fit."

 _What the fuck's that mean?_ "I think we're just trying to look like us."

"No, not the band, dude, I mean, you."

"I think I fit," Mike said quietly.

"I'm Bill," the kid offered. There was a kind of baby roundness to his face, an awkward gangly quality to his stance; Mike wondered how old he really was.

"Mike," he said finally, because the kid seemed to expect it.

"I know." The kid smiled, like he'd just won a point. He looked Mike up and down. "Doesn't everyone know who you are?"

"I don't think so."

The kid kept watching him, and Mike realized that he'd seen that look before, on other people. It was the 'who do you think you are?' look, the evaluation look. Like Mike was a show dog.

Mike felt his throat tighten, and he stared straight ahead of him. He wished the bus would show up. He wished it wasn't too far and too late to walk back to Schaumberg.

"I'm in a band too," Bill said. "Not really a band. A project. It's just me."

"That's nice," Mike said, still staring straight ahead, hoping the kid would shut up.

"It is nice." Bill sounded stung; Mike racked up a point for himself. "Hey, you shouldn't carry that case on your back, it's going to come open."

"It hasn't yet," Mike said. Fucking little poseur kids and their pissing contests. He was so sick of it. "I don't think I asked for any advice. Billy."

"Bill."

"Whatever."

The kid straightened up, trying to find a place to put his hands and failing. "You need to get a better sound system," he said finally. "You couldn't hear a fucking thing you guys played."

"Really? Let me try to pretend I care," Mike said.

They stared at each other, silently. Mike wasn't about to break eye contact, and Bill didn't seem likely to either; the only thing that interrupted them was the bus driving up and coming to a stop.

Bill looked at the bus. Mike turned around and started for the doors.

"See you, _rock star_ ," Bill said. Mike didn't turn around, just paid his fare and walked to the back. When he'd put the gear in the empty seat next to him and flopped against the window, he muttered, "Asshole," to himself, even though he knew the kid couldn't hear it.

*****

Mike used to see the kid at shows sometimes, and it always sort of pissed him off, even when he'd forgotten what the original reason was for disliking him. The fuck of it was that they had a lot of friends in common, so some well-meaning person would always drag him over to say hi with a tight-lipped smile and an eye towards the door, and the only gratifying thing was seeing the same expression on Bill Beckett's face.

It was kind of too bad that he couldn't dislike Beckett's band (if a band could be that skinny kid onstage alone, hunched over a too-big acoustic guitar). He'd only seen Remember Maine by accident - some show at the Fireside with 504 Plan; he'd only gone to say hello to Nick Scimeca in the first place. And try as he might, he couldn't hate the band (or whatever it was). Beckett's guitar technique maybe wasn't that great; he had about two chords perfect, and that was it.

But Jesus Lord, the fucking kid had a voice on him.

His pride wouldn't allow him to say it out loud, but he thought it a lot. The fucking kid had a _voice_. And some weird kind of charisma that felt more rock and roll than any acoustic show should feel and lyrics that hit Mike right in the chest.

His friendships always started with respect. Maybe it was for skill or personality or overall taste, but he'd always felt like he needed to be near people he admired, like he could be a better person by proxy. With William Beckett, he couldn't stand the fucker, but he was still standing in the middle of the floor, staring at the stage and holding his breath until the music faded away.

After that show, he made more of an effort to try to avoid the kid. He made a face and shook his head when mutual friends tried to put them together, because it was too weird of a feeling to dislike someone and respect him, too, and he really didn't want to deal with it.

He really, really, really didn't want to deal with it.

*****

It took Mike fifteen minutes to get from the bathroom to the bar. The room was packed - there were kids dancing in groups, waving glasses and cigarettes around, and he had to bob and weave and practically elbow people out of the way before he finally managed to find an empty seat at the bar and sit down.

His fake ID was a cheap piece of crap that nobody was ever fooled by, so he just ordered pop when the bartender came by. It was eleven-thirty on a Friday night, he had no curfew, and he had no idea what he wanted to do with his time.

The guy sitting next to Mike brushed his hair behind his ear with a quick, birdlike movement. He was sitting so close that his elbow hit Mike in the side and made him jump. "Oh, sorry."

"It's cool," Mike said, reaching for his drink, and then the guy turned his head and Mike was looking right into Bill Beckett's eyes.

 _Fuck_ , Mike said to himself. Immediately he tried to plan an escape route, but there were a dozen bodies crushed against his back and he didn't have much room to stand up, and it looked like Beckett was in the same position he was in. They were both stuck.

"Hi," Beckett said tonelessly.

"Hi," Mike said. He didn't have anything else to say. He thought he should take a drink or light a cigarette or do something that would suggest that he couldn't be less interested in the situation, except he didn't. He thought he should try to get this hostile silence between them to stop, either by saying, "So, Bill, how long have you been a total asshole?" or "Look, you're talented and whatever, but otherwise I really don't want to see you at all," or something like that, except he didn't. He looked very intently at a point on Beckett's face (the place where he could see a hint of razor-sharp cheekbone under the baby fat) and hoped it would make the kid really uncomfortable.

The muscles in Beckett's throat worked and his lips moved, but Mike couldn't hear what he was saying. Mike didn't move; Bill cleared his throat and said, "New Born."

Mike blinked. "What?"

"For that - you changed the bridge around tonight and it sounded like the rhythm part on New Born. You know, by Muse?"

"Yeah," Mike said. "That's kind of what I was trying to do."

What he was thinking was that they'd gotten off stage and then Tim had looked at him and laughed, saying, "What were you trying to do out there, Carden, be all of Pink Floyd by yourself? Fucking ridiculous." And he'd laughed, too, because it wasn't like he could say anything in his defense, and Tim was right, it'd stuck out like a sore thumb and didn't belong. Not with this band, anyway.

It was kind of typical luck that Beckett would be the one to notice. But, whatever, he had, which meant that he knew about Muse, which at least was something. Mike said, grudgingly, "I keep playing that album. I wanted to get Screenager down perfect first, but I guess the other one snuck in there."

"That's the kind of Spanish-y one, right?" Bill put his elbow on the bar. His fingers twitched, seemingly unconsciously, like he was holding an imaginary fretboard. "You guys don't really sound like - I mean, the rest of the band -"

"No, we don't," Mike said. "Sound like that. I don't sound like that. Normally."

"I liked it," Beckett said, like he was admitting a fault.

"It doesn't really fit," Mike said. "I should stick with the regular old sound, I guess."

"You don't _have_ to," Beckett said. "I mean, it's not like anyone's making you."

"No," Mike said, and then, snidely, because he'd just remembered that he didn't like the kid, "No one makes me do anything."

Bill shrugged. "How'd you learn about Muse, anyway?"

"How'd _you_ learn about Muse?"

"Bought it somewhere, I guess."

"But did someone, like, recommend it, or -"

"Uh," Bill said. "I liked the cover art?"

Mike laughed.

"I mean, at least I got it. For whatever reason." Bill scowled. "I'd like to be able to sing like that guy. The phrasing, I mean -"

"But you already kinda do, don't you?"

Bill looked at him. "Huh?"

"You just kind of sound like him. With the vibrato, a little bit. You know -" Mike made lines in the air with his finger. "I can hear it."

"Oh," Bill said. "Oh. Thanks."

"Look," Mike said. It might have been because it was still early and he didn't know what to do with himself, or it might have been because he didn't actually like fighting with people, or it might have been because he hadn't thought William Beckett would even know who Muse was. "I'm gonna go outside and have a cigarette. Want to come with me? It's kind of fucking crowded here."

"I don't smoke - yeah. Okay."

Mike leaned against the side of the building and smoked while Bill talked. Once the kid got started, there seemed to be no stopping him - he went from talking about how Jimmy Page and Robert Plant interacted on stage to how everything that was good in the world started with the Yardbirds to how he'd recently decided to get rid of his lip ring because it kept getting infected. There was an overriding earnest quality to everything he said, like he was trying to impress Mike with his seriousness, and some of the connections that he made didn't make immediate sense, but there was a nice quality about the spaciness. It was like he was from some other planet.

One cigarette turned into two, and when Mike finished the second cigarette, Bill said, "Look, I don't have to be home for a while, want to grab a cup of tea or something?"

"Coffee?" Mike said hopefully.

"Coffee for you, tea for me?"

Mike said, "Yeah, okay, sure."

They wound up at some all-night diner, where Mike ordered pancakes and Bill ordered an egg and cheese sandwich because there was nothing like having breakfast when it was getting late. Bill looked up from his plate - they'd been in the middle of talking about something, if Oasis was really a Beatles ripoff and how that related to Blur - and said, "You know, it's weird. You're really pretty cool."

"Huh?" Mike said around a mouthful of sausage.

"Because I really didn't like you at all at first."

"Dude, I didn't like you either. I was like - I thought you were this snotty little punk."

"Because of what I said when I met you?"

"Well, _yeah_ , man. When you were fucking telling me how to carry my gear. And telling me that I didn't fit with my band."

"I was so _nervous_ ," Bill said. "I was trying to say something totally different. You messed me up."

"I thought I was just waiting for my bus."

"Well, you were, but that's not the point. I mean - it was. Because you're Mike Carden from Jodie."

"Yeah, so? That's kind of who I've always been."

"I don't know. Because I kept hearing about you, and going to your shows, and you were like this guy everyone mentioned, you know? I wanted you to remember me, I guess. Except you got all angry, and I guess you kind of hated me or something then, and I just figured I'd fucked it up and I'd have to go along with it."

"Follow my lead."

"Yeah, exactly." Bill laughed. "I thought you were so rude, too. I thought you were the rudest person I'd ever met."

Mike looked at him, smiling. Bill smiled back.

"I guess you were right about one thing." Mike leaned over and stole a forkful of hash browns from Bill's plate. "I _am_ the rudest person you've ever met."

*****

There was one month where everything went wrong. His father kept telling him that he had to start thinking about scholarships and applying to colleges when he was thinking more and more that he really didn't want to go that way. His teachers kept saying that he could achieve so much more (even though he was getting Bs and B pluses, what the fuck) if he applied himself more, stopped staying up so late, stopped writing songs in class. The girl he'd been hanging out with decided that she didn't want to hang out with him anymore.

And then Tim said, "This isn't working." Mark said, "Maybe we're going different ways." AJ said, "I think the band's kind of run its course, dude."

It all meant the same thing: a disappointed family, a disappeared girlfriend, a disbanded band. When the band broke up, Mike spent the night staring at his bedroom ceiling, because he couldn't sleep and everything else in his room reminded him of shit he didn't want to think about. There were guitar picks on the floor, open textbooks on his desk, his guitar propped up in the corner. His walls were covered in posters, photos from swim meets, flyers from shows he'd played, ticket stubs from shows he'd been to. He couldn't look at any of them but he couldn't close his eyes either.

Three days after the band broke up, Mike walked out of the house, got in the car and started driving.

He hadn't exactly been happy for the past couple of months, anyway. Except on stage. On stage was where he could leave the bullshit behind, whether it was school or his family or even the fucking politics of the band itself. He could stop wondering if he was Mike-who-swam or Mike-who-got-decent-grades or Mike-who-didn't-know-what-to-do-with-himself and, for a little while, just feel like Mike.

Now he might have even lost that.

He'd driven for forty minutes. It was starting to rain.

By the time he'd gotten to Bill's house, the sky had gone dark and there were flashes of lightning showing up. Every so often thunder would crack through the heavy air. Mike parked outside the house and stomped up the front walk.

By the time Bill's mom opened the door, he was drenched. She scolded him, rather kindly, for not having a raincoat and then sent him up to Bill's room.

The door was open a crack, but he knocked on it anyway, waiting for Bill's languid, "Yeah."

Bill was sprawled out on the bed, book on his stomach, headphones covering one ear, one foot on the chair beside the bed, one on the floor. He stared up puzzledly at Mike. "Carden. You're all wet. Hi?"

"So do you want to be in a band with me or what?" Mike said.

Bill put the book down. He took the headphones off completely. Mike stood in the room, dripping on the carpet, waiting for him to answer.

*****

He'd been kind of nervous when Bill brought in Adam to play bass, mostly because of his age but also, a little, because of Mike's total uninvolvement with the process. For all he knew, Bill could have found Adam Siska lying in a gutter somewhere and decided that he looked like a bass player. Bill didn't really think like other people did.

So it was a relief when he met Siska and found out that they liked a lot of the same music, and that Siska didn't act like what he expected a fifteen year old kid to act like - he had a slightly off-kilter perspective on things, but Mike could say the same about Bill and himself. And he seemed to take music seriously, which was the main thing Mike was looking for.

He even liked the fact that Siska was totally devoted to Bill in a kid-brother kind of a way - if Mike had gotten _any_ sense that he was just out for himself, that he was going to treat the band as a stepping stone in any way, he'd have put his foot down and told Bill that they were finding someone else.

But Siska would follow Bill anywhere he asked, and it put Mike's mind at ease.

Now he just had to worry about getting another guitarist and a drummer, which was a big pain in the ass.

Siska said, when they were all sprawled in Mike's basement wracking their brains to come up with possible candidates, "What about the girl you met at Sean's house that time, Bill? Lauren something. Didn't she say she played guitar?"

"I don't want any hot girls in the band," Bill said.

Siska looked almost offended. "I thought you said she wasn't that hot."

"She was hot _enough_ , dude."

"No hot chicks," Mike said. "No way."

"What, is that a drawback now?"

"It is so a drawback," Bill said. "Is this a ploy to get you a date, Sisky? You thought she was pretty and this is how you want to make your move?"

"It is _not_ ," Siska said, turning bright red. "Anyway, I don't see what the big deal is. If someone's talented -"

"Yeah, but what's that gonna do to the band?" Bill said. "How are you meant to make music when you spend all your time falling in love with the band?"

"What do you mean, fall in love? You already have a girlfriend, Bill. You don't have to worry about that."

"That's not the _point_ ," Bill said. "You're missing the whole _point_."

"Which is?"

"The politics," Mike said. "Fuckin' politics would get out of control. You can't shit where you eat, Sisky."

"Ew," Siska said, laughing. "I mean, it can work. Sonny and Cher did it."

"You are not seriously comparing us to Sonny and fucking Cher."

"No, but -"

"And they got _divorced_ ," Bill said triumphantly. "See what happens? It's so wrong."

"You're so cynical," Siska said.

"Just realistic," Mike said. "I don't want to spend my time thinking about who the members of my band are sleeping with."

"Anyway, I think that girl was lying," Bill said. "Later on she confused Robert Palmer with Bryan Ferry."

Siska's eyes widened. " _Oh._ You didn't tell me that. Fuck _her_ , man."

It was a relief when they finally found Little Mike and Ace. It was beginning to at least look like a band.

Except they still didn't have a name.

*****

Both he and Bill came down with the flu at the same time. It was horrible timing; the record wasn't even half written, they both needed to get to work so the rent could get paid, there were a bunch of demos that still needed to be recorded. Except Bill was barely able to speak, let alone sing, and Mike's ears were so plugged up that he couldn't tell one note from another.

It was probably their own fault (although if Mike ever got his hands on the asshole who gave them this he was going to _kill_ them). It was too many days and nights of staying up too late and getting up too early, eating junk food and drinking too much and running from work to rehearsal to writing sessions without a break. Mike had his mother's voice running through his head, saying, "You need to remember there are limits, Michael."

Nonetheless, he dragged himself off to work and spent the day in a haze, barely knowing where he was half the time, ducking into the back room to blow his nose and cough into the wastepaper basket at regular intervals. He was probably going to give everyone the Martian Death Plague. They were probably going to fire him, which would have made him uproariously happy but for the loss of the paycheck.

At four, his manager made him go home and thankfully told him not to come in again until Monday. He was going to feel the loss of the rest of the week at the end of the month, but he didn't really care.

Back at the apartment, he took his shoes and socks off and dropped them by the door. There were empty beer cans and open CD cases lying on the floor, Bill's lyric book lying on the sofa with its pages falling out. The answering machine light was blinking. Four messages - Ace saying he was sick too and wouldn't be able to make rehearsal that week, Bill's girlfriend sounding worried, something from his father and something from Bill's father (all overt concern and covert disappointment). He thought about trying to call them back but Ace sounded pretty bad and probably needed to rest, and he really didn't want to talk to either of his parents when he was sick and open to persuasion. He could picture the way the conversation would go; his resolve would be weakened by the thought of getting to go home and lie on the couch watching cartoons and eating his mom's chicken soup, and then, blammo, he'd get blackmailed into quitting the band and wind up doing engineering at Northwestern and being miserable.

He stumbled into the kitchen, thinking he should probably try to eat something, but when he looked into the refrigerator his stomach lurched in revolt, so he settled for gulping some water and went into the bedroom. There was a lump of blankets huddled on the bed on Bill's side of the room. Tufts of brown hair were poking out from the top. He was about to go over and poke it to make sure Bill hadn't died on him, but then the lump started sneezing and saved him the trouble.

"Bless," Mike said quietly, because he didn't have anything better.

The blankets stirred and Bill poked his head out. He looked godawful. There were feverish red blotches on his cheekbones and the skin around his eyes seemed waxy and stretched too tight. Bill's immune system hadn't been all that great during the time Mike had known him; he was prone to colds, bronchitis, any stray virus that happened across his path. It was all or nothing with Bill - either he was fine or he was practically emergency room material.

If Mike ever found the asshole who'd given him this thing, he was going to kill them.

"Hey, Carden," Bill said hoarsely. "When'd you get home?"

"Two minutes ago. Your girlfriend called. And your dad."

"Don't worry about her, I talked to her earlier. I told her not to come over or I'd give her the plague. What'd Dad say?"

"Don't remember," Mike said, coughing. "And Ace called. He's sick too."

"So is he flaking?"

"I think so. He sounded crappy. How're you feeling? Any better?"

Bill scowled at him. "No. I feel like shit. I wanna die."

"No dying until we finish the record. You can die a whole bunch then."

Bill giggled, which was kind of reassuring. "I'll die a whole bunch. What are we gonna _do_ about the fuckin' thing, Carden? How much time are we going to lose -"

"I don't know," Mike said. "I'll feel better tomorrow. I'll figure it out then."

"This messes _everything_ up," Bill said miserably, and went into a coughing fit that ended with a gut-wrenching sneeze. "'Scuse me. This sucks."

"Kinda, yeah." He was feeling dizzy, which was probably a sign that he should lie down. He supposed he could go over to his own bed, but Bill's was closer to him, so he padded over and sat down heavily at the foot of it. "I don't really know what to do about it."

"Me neither." Bill groaned. "I thought making art was meant to be more romantic than this, Carden."

"God, I know." Mike sneezed into his elbow and then swiped at his nose, which was starting to feel raw. "Ugh. Fuckin' - gross."

"You don't look so good," Bill said quietly. "Want to lie down here for a while? I don't mind."

Mike knew that he really meant, _I feel like shit, I'm freaking out, and I don't want to be alone right now, can you stay with me?_ He could have teased Bill about it, but his bed was a long way away and he didn't know of a better way to reassure Bill than sticking around, so he mumbled, "Okay," and flopped backwards onto the mattress.

"No more worrying, okay, Bill?" he said with his eyes closed, squirming upwards slowly until he felt his head hit the pillow. "I don't have to go into work tomorrow. I'll see if I can get something written then."

"I'll try."

He wanted to say something else, but he didn't really know what to say and he was falling asleep anyway.

He woke up shaking, not knowing where he was. The room was dark and something scratchy was pressed against his face. He had goosebumps up and down his arms, and his teeth were chattering. It took a minute before he remembered anything (our apartment, Bill's bed, it's just Bill's bed).

He twisted on the bedspread, trying to get warm, but it didn't work. It was ridiculous, it was fucking stupid, because his hair was soaked through with sweat and sticking to his face and neck, and his shirt (his fucking _work shirt_ , he'd have to do laundry) was plastered to his back, but he felt like he'd been tossed into an ice bath. Bill was snoring congestedly beside him and he didn't want to wake him up, but he couldn't stop shivering and he was starting to cough. He pulled his legs to his chest and tucked his chin in, trying to muffle any sound.

Bill stirred behind him; Mike started to apologize, to force the words out between chattering teeth, but it all came out garbled. "Carden?" Bill muttered sleepily. "What's goin' on?"

"It's fucking freezing in here," he tried to say, but that didn't really come out clearly either. He forced himself to stop coughing; his chest hurt and he was wheezing.

"Carden?" Bill said again, and then, softly, "Mikey?"

"Go to sleep," Mike rasped. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not." Bill shifted over in the dark, touching his face and neck, pressing a palm against his forehead. "You've got chills. Get under the covers, okay?"

He was too out of it to respond or even move. When Bill pulled the blanket over him it felt like being covered with a block of ice and he actually heard himself whimper, like a kid; it was really fucking embarrassing. Bill whispered, "Sorry, Mike."

Bill was rubbing his arms in short strokes, pushing his sleeves up and massaging his shoulders with his palms. He could feel the fever heat of Bill's body, sinking in through his skin. Mike said, "What are you -"

"My mom used to do this for me sometimes when I was little. Gets the circulation going." Bill sandwiched his hand between two palms and rubbed his fingers. "Why didn't you tell me you were this sick?"

"'Cause I wasn't," Mike said, and sneezed. "Sorry."

"You're a stubborn son of a bitch. I'm not letting you go to work tomorrow. No way."

He probably could have said one of two things; one, that Bill had obviously forgotten that he had the rest of the week off anyway, or two, that Bill was pretty sick himself and therefore even less of a threat than he usually was. But he really felt like hell, and it was kind of nice to have Bill fuss over him, so he just mumbled, "I won't go to work."

"Good. How do you feel now?"

"A little better." He'd mostly stopped shivering, and now he just felt achy and exhausted. "I mean -"

"Still kind of lousy?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, me too." Bill brushed the sweaty hair away from Mike's face with long, delicate fingers. "Poor Mikey."

"Yeah, poor me," Mike said. Bill rubbed his back, murmuring softly, and Mike didn't have it in him to resist, so he rolled over and rested his head against the solid ridge of Bill's shoulder. "Thanks."

"Forget about it," Bill said, sounding half-asleep. He draped a hand around Mike's shoulder. "What are friends for, anyway?"

*****

Bill brought his girlfriend over to the apartment ten days before they were meant to go down to Florida to record. Mike was basically okay with it (he'd kind of wanted to finalize some stuff, try to practice by himself before they actually had to get on the plane, but he knew that was mostly just him being obsessive). He knew he'd probably have to make himself scarce for the rest of the night, but, whatever, he'd just go out and drink and then crash at someone else's house.

Except everyone he called was either busy or out of town, and every bartender he tried to sweet-talk seemed to realize that he was underage. Irritated, stone-cold sober, he wound up stomping up and down the pavement, wishing there was something to do in Palantine besides drink and wondering just how far he could walk without stopping.

Finally, he was just too cold and tired and sore to keep wandering around. He'd go back to the apartment, put his headphones on, and sleep on the couch. Hopefully it wouldn't be too awkward.

The apartment was dark when he came back except for the light in his and Bill's bedroom. He went for his Discman, but it wasn't on the couch, where he thought he'd left it, and it wasn't in the kitchen, which was the second place he'd thought it might be. He was stumbling around in the dark and trying not to trip over things, and he was getting pissed.

He suddenly remembered that he'd left the Discman in the bedroom.

There was no way he could go in there and get it without seeing something he probably shouldn't, so he just stumbled back to the couch, grabbed a cushion and shut his eyes. The couch wasn't really made for sleeping on.

He could hear murmuring noises coming from the bedroom, indistinct and wordless; Bill purring something and his girlfriend purring back. He put his fingers in his ears.

It was intimacy that he really shouldn't be a part of; there were things that he didn't, shouldn't, share with Bill. It didn't matter that they'd been sleeping in the same room, practically side by side (and sometimes in the same bed, only sometimes, only sleeping) for months, that he'd sometimes woken up to soft slapping noises coming from Bill's side of the room and that Bill had probably overheard him whacking off too (they never mentioned it to each other, out of courtesy, and finally it just seemed normal). This wasn't something he should hear.

She was laughing now, softly. Mike pressed his back into the couch. Bill said something, a little louder, teasing.

It was going to be a really long night.

He kept his eyes tightly shut, but it wasn't enough. They fell quiet eventually, but he kept imagining Bill's hands moving across the sheets (long pale fingers), the sound of Bill's breath catching in his throat, brown eyes falling shut. In Mike's head, he couldn't even picture Bill's girlfriend at all.

He swallowed. He didn't want to deal with this.

He didn't sleep at all. When Bill came wandering out in the morning, hair at all angles, eyes puffy and satiated, he asked, "Have a good night?" and Mike snapped at him and then went into the bathroom and locked the door. He didn't come out until he was sure they were gone.

Three days later Mike picked up a girl at a club and brought her back to the apartment. Six days later they were in Florida.

*****

They lost Ace and Little Mike before the album had even come out. He didn't really remember why it happened, just that Siska and he and Bill were constantly talking about _the road_ , how they were going to live when they were on _the road_ , and Ace and Little Mike didn't join in and then they were both going home to Chicago without them.

There wasn't even time to miss them, because the album was finally coming out, the tour was about to start, and they'd finally graduated to a bus instead of a van. They found Tom and brought him in faster than Mike would have liked, but it seemed like everything was happening fast, so he really should have expected it. And Tom basically came as a package deal with Butcher, so it felt like they had a new band just as quickly as they'd lost the first.

Being on the bus didn't feel like much of a change, except they didn't have to drive in shifts anymore and they could play Playstation 2 instead of Slug Bug. They were still living in each other's pockets.

They were somewhere in Iowa, maybe, sometime before dawn, crammed together in the back lounge. In the game, Siska was Bernard Hopkins, Mike was James Toney. Mike wasn't big on boxing games normally - he liked basketball or baseball or games where you could run around and do stuff as opposed to just beating the daylights out of someone. But they'd played everything else about ten thousand times and they were out of ideas.

"It's good for hand-eye coordination," Siska said. "You need good reflexes. Butcher, why don't you play?"

"ADD," Butcher said cheerfully. "I'm easily distracted by flashing lights. Mike, he's beating the holy crap out of you."

"I'm getting my second wind," Mike said. On the screen, Toney's face looked like a scored pork chop.

"Second wind, phooey," Siska said. "That's right. Phooey."

Bill was reading a book off by the side, somewhere in Mike's peripheral vision. Tom was sprawled next to him, picking at a bowl of ramen without much interest.

"The sound effects are pretty cool," Butcher said. "What is that, seven eights time?"

"I thought it was just common time," Mike said.

"It's a little off, though. It's like -" Butcher slapped his thigh in demonstration. "Uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, uh. A musical beat-down."

Mike laughed. Butcher chuckled back, softly, like he was pleased to be acknowledged, and then shifted gracefully over onto his stomach, resting his chin in the crook of a long tattooed arm. Butcher was one of the most physically comfortable people Mike had ever met; he moved as though he had no bones, like he just flowed from one space to another. Even Bill, who looked as though he were made of air, didn't have that quality; Bill had never quite lost his gangly awkwardness. Mike wondered how he had managed to play baseball.

"How's the ramen, Tom?" Butcher said.

"Eh," Tom said. "Ramen-y."

"It's all salt, dude," Bill said, not looking up from his book. "It's all salt and preservatives and - and crap that's bad for you."

"I thought I wanted it," Tom said. "I went through all the trouble of making it and everything, and now I don't want it anymore."

"You could just throw it out," Mike said.

"Yeah, but I can't. There are starving children in Africa."

"Is that you or your mom talking?" Butcher asked.

"Who can tell?" Tom put the bowl down for the fifth time. He brushed at Bill's shoulder. "What the hell, man. You've got dust or something all over you."

"It's because I'm so well-traveled," Bill said. "This is life on the road dust."

"Looks like dandruff to me," Tom said. "You're _dirty_."

"I am not," Bill said, but he raised his shoulder up to touch his hair, sneaking a look down when he dropped his shoulder. Tom brushed at his shirt again, which escalated into tugging at the hem; Bill laughed and jabbed out with his elbow, keeping the book in his hands. Tom made a catcher's mitt with his hand and cupped it around Bill's arm.

They'd been developing this routine since they'd started on the tour. Tom used anything as a pretext to touch Bill - tugging at his hair, pulling at holes in his jeans, sometimes half-wrestling with him like he was a puppy. Bill accepted it all, except for when he would abruptly get tired of it, or if he temporarily decided that such shenanigans were beneath him. It was a quick change act; one minute Bill would be laughing and fooling around, and the next minute he'd be snapping, " _Quit_ it," and Tom would reluctantly withdraw.

"You're crazy," Bill said to Tom fondly. "You're a freak."

Tom just grinned. He started to play with a loose thread on Bill's sleeve, winding it around his thumb. Bill didn't seem to notice.

It probably wasn't a surprise that Tom and Bill got along. Tom was artistic in the same sort of way that Bill was artistic - abstracted and dreamy, even if Bill was more likely to talk through whatever inspiration he was having, and Tom barely let on what he was thinking about. Tom knew about things, and Bill was always hungry to learn.

On the screen, Toney's face was pulpy red, and Mike could barely work the controller. He waited for the inevitable.

"Oh!" Siska said, and did a triumphant little dance from his place on the floor. " _Suck it_ , Carden. Oh, yeah."

"You got lucky," Mike said. "I went easy on you because you're just a baby." He put the controller down and put what he hoped was a smug smile on his face.

"A baby who just kicked your ass," Siska said. "Bill, look. Did you see what I did?"

"Yes, Sisky," Bill said patiently. "Yes, I saw. Hey. Quit pulling my thread." He swatted at Tom's hand. Tom laughed.

Mike wondered if Bill would ever figure out that Tom was in love with him. Maybe he wouldn't. Bill was probably used to people treating him that way. Everybody fell in love with Bill eventually.

*****

On Mike's twenty-first birthday, his party was held at the student event coordinator's apartment, after the show was over. It was a short way away from the campus; they left the bus in the USD parking lot and hoped they'd make it back in time to get to the next show.

"Mike needs to get _trashed_ ," Bill informed them all on the way over. "He's never going to be this age again. Unless you count the year after tonight. But my point still stands."

"I can get trashed every night," Mike said. "I don't pay attention to ages."

But he was smiling as he said it, because it had been a long time since anyone had organized a party just for him, the stars were out, and he could smell the ocean in the air, the sharp clean smell of salt spray that always made him feel happy. Bill grabbed his shoulders and jostled him from side to side, crooning, "Twenty-one shots. You'll do twenty-one shots..."

"I like how Bill's more excited about your birthday than you are," Siska told him. "Unless you're just reining it in for us."

"Nah, it's because I'm cool."

"Mike's already used to it," Butcher said. He was ambling by Mike's side, with Tom wandering somewhere behind him. "He's been twenty-one for a while. In his head."

"More like forty," Mike said. "Someone's got to be around here."

When they got to the apartment, the student event coordinator, Abby, let them in with an excited giggle and a rush of, "My roommates have been getting the food ready all day, happy birthday Mike, hi guys, help yourselves to anything you want." And then she dashed away, still giggling.

In the common room, there were about eleven people standing around a food-laden table, drinking beer and looking very studiedly casual, and when they walked in, there was a collective intake of breath, every head turning towards them, and Mike thought, _Wow._

Abby's roommates (Lauren and...Stella? Something) had gone insane with cooking. There were burgers and fried chicken and potato salad and chips with guacamole and salsa verde. There was even cake, homemade cake, a little lopsided with thick white frosting and _Happy Birthday_ scrawled uncertainly across the top and raspberries dotted around the edges. It seemed like everyone was waiting for them to eat first (anxious eyes turned towards them all, _do you like it?_ ), so it was a relief to finally get a plate filled and hear the conversation in the room resume.

Mike staked out the couch in the corner of the room and watched everyone else circulate. Occasionally someone would pass by him and give him a shy smile or a nod, but something seemed to stop them from saying anything else. It was probably him. Bill had given him shit for it, telling him that he was the worst person to have at a party, that he never smiled and he looked too intimidating when he didn't smile, that he seemed too aloof from what was going on. Bill was probably right. But he hadn't drunk enough to start relaxing yet. He figured if someone really wanted to come strike up a conversation, they could come to him.

Most of the attention in the room, he noticed, was focused on Bill. There was a small circle gathered around him, Bill looking down from his great height and nodding intently and smiling at whoever was talking to him, and a larger circle outside of the nucleus, people trying to lean in unobtrusively to listen to the conversation. Elsewhere in the room, Butcher was talking to a girl who was leaning in to examine his tattoos, tracing a path through the designs. He couldn't see Siska, but he imagined he was telling jokes and charming someone, and Tom was getting a drink with some girl under the watchful eye of her boyfriend.

Eventually people started to wander over to Mike's corner, bringing him things: chips, more cake, more drinks. At first he accepted them with a smile and a puzzled thank you, thinking they were being kind, but when people kept coming he realized that it was more of an organized movement.

Bill was directing people over to him. He only caught scraps of the conversation; Bill saying off-handedly, like a king addressing his subjects, "...it's cool, he'd like you to...I don't know, whatever you want to bring him.." And then two seconds later, right on cue, someone showed up with a beer in hand, not meeting his eyes, shyly saying, "Uh, Mike?"

Mike wasn't sure if he should be amused or annoyed. He took the beer, said thank you, and then shot Bill a look from across the room; Bill just gave him a dazzling smile and raised his glass. Mike rolled his eyes but raised his beer back anyway. He was starting to feel drunk.

At some point, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He tilted his head backwards. Tom was looming over him, big eyes gone a little unfocused, smile a little uncertain. "Hi," Mike said. He sounded a little more unsure than he wanted to. He and Tom didn't have much in common other than guitars - well, they probably had things in common, but Mike didn't know how to talk about them. Tom had Bill to talk to, anyway.

He didn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't for Tom to bend down and give him a rough hug, patting his shoulder. "Happy birthday, man," the words slurred and all the more sincere for it, "I'm so fucking glad I'm in this band with you."

"Dude," Mike said. "Man. Dude." He squeezed Tom's shoulder back. Tom was a good guy. He really was. Mike hadn't tried hard enough with him. "Dude."

Tom laughed and ruffled his hair. For a minute, Mike felt like Bill. "Want another drink?"

"I've had so fuckin' many drinks, man -"

"One more won't kill you." Tom laughed and wandered away. He got waylaid by Butcher on the way to the liquor and Mike figured that was the last he'd see of him for the rest of the night. He lit another cigarette and pondered actually leaving the couch to go for a drink. Maybe he could cajole someone into bringing him another one. But maybe that only worked when Bill did it.

Siska saved him by coming over and pressing a sweating glass into his hand. "What's up, Mike?" His eyes were bright, his hair undone. He looked like a tiny lion.

"You disappeared," Mike said and gulped the drink - it tasted of sugar and medicine. "I wondered where you went."

"I've been _places_ ," Siska told him solemnly. "I've been places you'll never see. I'm like the wind."

He couldn't tell if Siska was drunk or not. He grabbed his wrist and pulled him down onto the couch. "Talk to me." The light hit Siska's hair weird; it was all crazy corkscrews and Mike wanted to touch it. He leaned over and straightened a curl between two fingers and then let it go, watching it spring back into place. " _Boing._ "

"I haven't washed this for three days," Siska warned. "It's all sweaty and gross."

"Don't care," Mike said and grabbed another curl. "Boiiing."

"You're weird." Siska knocked against Mike's shoulder with his chin.

Siska was a good kid. He liked Siska. "Hey, Sisky, why do we never call you Adam, why is that?"

"I think it's because - hello."

Mike looked down. There was a girl lying in his lap, her legs over the side of the couch, her head on Siska's thigh. "Hello," he said.

"Hi!" she said brightly. "I didn't spill my drink, did I? That's the important thing."

Mike checked. "No."

"Good. I'm Anna."

"I'm Mike," he said, maybe unnecessarily. "This is Adam - Sisky, what should I fuckin' introduce you as? Give me some help."

"Either one," Siska said. He was looking puzzledly at the girl's head on his leg.

"So, havin' a good night?" she said.

"Uh," Mike said. His small talk was all used up. "Uh, I. Uh." He looked desperately at Siska.

"How's your night going?" Siska said.

"Good!" She tilted her head back and swallowed the rest of her drink.

"Hey," Mike said. "You guys should go and get yourselves drinks. You and Sisky. You and Adam. Siska. Want a smoke?"

"No, thank you. I would like a drink though." She looked up at Siska. "Want to come with me?"

"Sure," Siska said uncertainly. Anna rolled off Mike's lap; Siska mouthed, _I'm going to kill you,_ at Mike when her back was turned. Mike shrugged at him, raising his hands helplessly.

Siska disappeared into the crowd, following the girl. Mike lit a cigarette.

"That's going to kill you," a familiar voice drawled, and then Bill's long leg was draped over his shoulder, Bill sitting behind him on top of the couch. It was part of Bill's party demeanor: work the room by acting as flirty and tactile as possible. Bill had practiced it so often that it looked natural. He was just as uncomfortable as Mike was at parties, but he was better at faking it.

"Yeah, but I'll die pretty," Mike said, forcing himself not to look up and shrugging Bill's leg off his shoulder.

"You had a girl in your lap. Where'd she go?"

"She picked Sisky over me," Mike said. "She had no taste."

"I don't know," Bill said. "Is she the one making out with him right now?"

Mike looked. From his vantage point it looked like Sisky had his tongue in Anna's mouth, his hand sliding under her shirt. People were knocking into them and they didn't even move.

"Well, fuck," Mike said. "That's, like, borderline illegal."

"Look at the kid," Bill said fondly. "I'm so proud. Look, I'm about to head out. I wanted to say happy birthday and -"

"Wait, you're fucking _leaving_?"

"Yeah. I'm done."

"I thought you were being all social."

"I _was_ ," Bill said reasonably. "I was and now I've talked to everybody here and I don't have anything left to say and I don't want to think up anything new. I'm gonna walk back to the bus. So -"

"I wanna come too."

Bill looked stricken. "But it's your party. You can't leave your birthday party, man."

"It's my party and I'll leave if I want to," Mike said, and giggled. Giggling was more of a Bill thing to do, but he was drunk and he couldn't remember how he usually laughed.

"Mikey -"

"I wanna go back to the bus and watch Total Recall again."

"Are you sure? I don't want you to leave if you're still having fun."

Mike pushed himself off the couch. His legs wobbled and Bill grabbed his shoulders. "When have I ever had fun at these things?"

They found Abby in the kitchen, making Jello shots. Bill said, "Thank you very much," and she made disappointed noises but pushed a bottle of something dark into Bill's hands and told him to call when the band came around again. To Mike, she offered a shy, "Happy birthday," and he wasn't sure if he should shake her hand or say something or what, so he gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and said something about the cake that hopefully was okay.

Once they hit the street, Bill took a swig from the bottle and smiled. "She gave me the good shit."

"Let me see that, kiddo," Mike said, and reached for the bottle.

"No, you've had enough. I'm going to save you from yourself."

"I am _older_ ," Mike said. "You are only twenty, and I am twenty-one, and I get dibs on everything. Gimme."

"You're so grabby," Bill complained, but passed over the bottle. Mike gulped from it, tasted the purifying whiskey burn, and laughed.

The stars weren't out anymore; the sky was dark blue and pink. Maybe the sun would be coming up soon. The smell of the ocean was so close that it made Mike feel almost overwhelmed; he was sure he could hear waves crashing somewhere if he really listened.

"Bill. Bill. Let's go swimming. We're right on the fucking water."

"We can't swim now," Bill said. "I don't have a suit. Neither do you."

"Fuckin' _naked_ swimming. We'll catch a fish. Give Sisky a pet."

"Make a net out of somethin'," Bill said, warming to the idea. "Which way can we - I bet I can hit that."

"Hit what?"

Bill scooped up a rock from the ground and pointed at the School Zone sign ahead of them. "I'm out of practice, but -" He drew his arm back and then let go, his arm straightening and shooting out like an arrow, the rock flying from his fingers. Mike heard the clinking sound before he saw the sign shudder.

" _Dude_ ," he said. "You dented it!"

"I could have gone pro," Bill said, and laughed. He kicked at the stones by his feet and took the bottle from Mike's hand.

"I can throw farther," Mike said. "Maybe."

Bill reached up and tapped the sign as they passed, then slung his arm around the pole and spun around. "Wanna try? I'll bet you fifty bucks."

"You can't bet fifty bucks, dude," he said, with a sudden flash of clarity. "What are you using, per diem? What are you going to eat with the rest of the tour? What am I going to eat with?"

"You eat my food anyway," Bill pointed out. "I try to get my cereal in the morning and it's like this little Carden-sized mouse got into everything."

"Dude, I get hungry."

" _I_ get hungry. Because you keep eating all my food."

"You're generous." Mike grabbed the bottle. He tilted his head back, but choked on the last swallow and spat his mouthful out. Bill patted his back.

"You okay? Don't overdo things."

"'M fine," Mike said. It occurred to him that Bill was a whole lot more sober than he usually was, loose-limbed and liquid eyed but steady. "How much did you drink tonight?"

"I let you do the drinking for me." They turned into the USD main entrance.

"I could have gone to college here," Mike said. "You could have, too. We could be taking classes together."

"We wouldn't be doing this, though," Bill said.

"Nuh-uh," Mike said. "I can hit that building."

"With what?"

Mike scanned the ground; finally he found what looked like a decent rock, not too heavy. "This." Bill took a drink and watched him wind up.

"Don't lose it," he warned. "You gotta keep a steady eye -"

"Don't fuckin' -" He had been going to say _distract me_ , but then he lost his hold on the rock and it went wide. There was a sudden crash of glass breaking. "Fuck!"

"Fuck!" Bill said. "Run!"

He dashed after Bill, running off the pavement and onto the grass, following Bill's silhouette until they were somewhere Mike didn't recognize, probably the football field, but it could have just as easily been somewhere else. Bill came to a stop and put his hands on his knees, bending almost double.

"You're a fuckin' idiot," he gasped, laughing hysterically. "We're gonna - you broke -"

"I _broke_ it," Mike said, laughing back. "I killed college."

"I think the _idea_ of college is still alive and well, Mike." Bill straightened up, still smiling. His eyes were all crinkly at the corners and soft-looking.

"Yeah," Mike said.

He actually hadn't been meaning to kiss him at that moment. He'd thought he'd be able to keep it together. Except it was almost the day after his twenty-first birthday, and William Beckett was giving him a movie-star smile in one of the most beautiful places Mike had ever seen, and all he wanted to do was catch Bill's lower lip between his lips.

He was leaning against Bill's shoulder, holding Bill's chin in his hand, feeling the dust of stubble over soft skin. Bill tasted of whiskey, and sugar, and raspberries, and Mike thought, _I can do this so easy, I can kiss you for the rest of my fucking life,_ and then Bill turned his head away.

He didn't get it at first. He pulled Bill back around to face him. He pulled Bill's head down and tried to push his tongue into his mouth again, but Bill clamped his mouth closed and pulled away. "Mike, don't."

"Oh," Mike said. He took a step backwards, suddenly unsteady. "Oh."

"Let's get you back to the bus," Bill said. "Come on."

"Bill," Mike said. His legs wouldn't work, he didn't even want to try. "Bill - _William_ ," because the situation seemed to call for full names, like that would show how serious he was.

"Come on," Bill said again. Mike took a step forward, but his legs felt all weird and he staggered. Bill took a deep breath and grabbed him roughly around the shoulders, pulling him forward.

"William," Mike said. "I can't - I didn't - I'll never fuck the band up, William, never never never, swear to God."

"I know."

"You can't - you need to listen, because I know you aren't, fuckin', the band's so important, Bill, it means everything, _everything_ , more than -"

"I'm listening, Mike." They were back at the bus. Bill, out of breath and shaking a little, let him go. Mike slumped against the bus' side, metal pressing into his face. "I'm listening."

"You're not," Mike said, his voice gone shivery, and he didn't even have time for a warning before he was gagging and throwing up his birthday dinner against the bus and onto the pavement and his shoes. His throat felt scraped raw and it hurt to breathe.

" _Jesus_ , Mike," Bill said, and the note of alarm was reassuring at first and then just made him feel sicker. He grabbed Mike's waist, holding him up; Mike spat onto the ground and said, "Don't," but there was no force in it and he fell against Bill's thigh, gasping and choking and hating his own lack of resolve.

He heard the bus door open; Butcher's sleepy voice said, "There's a lot of commotion out here - Mike? Bill, what's -"

"It's okay. It's okay," Bill said. "Mike's sick. Give me a hand, will you?"

"Yeah, yeah, all right." Mike felt someone tilting his head up; Butcher's worried face was out of focus. Mike tried to twist away, hide his face, but Butcher just brushed the hair out of his eyes, barely even touching him, really, and whispered, "Hey, kiddo."

He had Bill holding him up on one side and Butcher on the other. Mike had the idea that Butcher was reasonable, Butcher could make Bill understand that Mike would never do anything stupid and jeopardize what they all had, but the words froze on his tongue before he could start speaking and he was distracted by how humiliating this was, he couldn't even walk by himself. Bill was pulling him up the stairs ("I got him now, Butch, thanks") and back towards the bunks.

Mike jerked away from Bill, grabbing onto the top bunk to steady himself. The floor lurched sickeningly below him. He shoved Bill's hand away and folded himself onto the bed.

Somewhere above him, a door opened. Butcher said, "Is he -"

Bill said shrilly, "It's fuckin' all right, _go away_ ," and Butcher snarled back, "Sorry for fucking caring," and then the slam of the door. Mike forced himself to look around; Bill was staring down at him, eyes unreadable, pale face hanging down between his two clasped hands.

Mike stared back up at him, wishing he were better with words, that he could pick the best phrase out of the million things he had rushing around in his brain.

Then Bill turned his face away and pulled the curtain closed, and Mike turned back to the wall.

He woke up hours later with the worst hangover of his life, a skull-crushing lead weight of a hangover, but it wasn't like the pain wouldn't eventually go away. Butcher, once he'd made sure that Mike wasn't likely to die any time soon, made bets on how many gallons of puke Mike had left back in San Diego, and Siska refused to answer any questions about whether he'd slept with the girl at the party or not, and Tom strummed his guitar and said, "What a way to spend your birthday, right?" and Bill wouldn't talk to him. Or even look at him.

Bill didn't talk to him during the whole ride to San Francisco or the check-in or even at sound check. Tom and Butcher were exchanging concerned looks over the drum kit. Mike was seeing his future falling apart - he didn't know what he'd do without this band, he didn't know what he'd do if he couldn't write songs with Bill anymore (or be with Bill anymore). If he didn't try to fix things, then he was even dumber than he'd thought.

He walked into Bill's dressing room when he was warming up, without knocking, and Bill jumped and stopped right in the middle of the vocal exercises. "What?" he said finally, tonelessly.

"I think we've still got time to go get married before the show starts," Mike said.

Bill stared at him. "Wait, what?"

"You know. It's San Francisco. They probably let dudes get married all the time. You want to wear the dress?"

"That's not fucking funny," Bill said.

"You do all sorts of stupid shit when you're drunk," Mike said. "I never acted this way with you."

"This is different. This is -"

"Why's it different? Because everyone's supposed to fall in love with you? Because you're William Beckett?"

"No, but, Mike, when I was - last night, you looked like you _meant_ it."

"I was drunk, you idiot," Mike said. "I think you've got lead singer's disease. Total raging ego."

"I don't want to lose this band," Bill said in a whisper. "I don't want us to change."

Mike shrugged. "Nothing's changed."

He supposed, in a way, he was telling the truth about that.

"I mean, Mike, you're my friend, you're my brother, it's just -"

"Fucking Christ, Bill." Mike said. "Stop being so dramatic. Unless you want me to play along. Do you?"

"We're _discussing_ things," Bill said, looking hurt. "I'm not playing."

"Okay, well, let's get my part of this out of the way, all right? Bill, you're so great, I love you so much, you're the best thing that's ever happened to me, I never want to lose you. Blah blah blah you're the air that I breathe and whatever. Now let's go buy you a pretty dress and get married." He swallowed.

It only hurt for a second when he saw the relief flooding through Bill's face. Just for a second.

"Fuck you, Carden," Bill said, laughing. "You're an idiot when you're drunk. Don't ever scare me like that again."

"Eh, fuck you too," Mike said and punched Bill's shoulder. " _Talk_ to me next time instead of sulking, would you?"

"Yeah, yeah. Lead singer's disease, remember?" Bill went back to his vocal exercises. Mike went outside and smoked a cigarette and then he went to get ready for the show.

When they walked onstage, every person in the crowd screamed.

*****

Sometimes in interviews, they ask him to describe his life, the way he lives now as opposed to the way he lived before. Mike always gets tripped up by that question.

This is what he could say, but doesn't: He lives in buses and hotels. He eats from roadside diners and catering trucks. He gets up on stage and hears people screaming and singing along, and it makes him feel like himself, for a while. He gets off stage and goes to parties at bars and other people's houses. Sometimes he brings girls back to his bed for the night and sometimes he doesn't. Sometimes he writes songs. He always, always plays guitar. He doesn't think about Bill.

Much.


End file.
